


Soaring

by silvrhuntress



Category: Supernatural RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvrhuntress/pseuds/silvrhuntress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha's attempts at helping Jensen relax aren't so innocent after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaring

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Soaring (sequel to [Flying](http://archiveofourown.org/works/171137))  
>  **Rating:**  NC-17  
>  **Pairing:** Misha/Jensen  
>  **Word Count:** 5819  
>  **Warnings:** BDSM  
>  **Summary:** Misha's attempts at helping Jensen relax aren't so innocent after all.
> 
> Dedicated to princess_aleera. May your life be full of scraps of fabric.  
> 

“Breathe,” Misha said, and moved away from where he knelt.

Jensen tried. Every breath dragged heavy against his dry throat, pressing his body against the ropes that coiled everywhere, in bands around his chest and arms, wrists and ankles, waist and thighs. He trembled, but damn it, he was stronger than this; he did some of his own stunts, worked out, had walked his own path through life since he was old enough to set one foot before the other without stumbling.

Misha’s ropes, dyed blue (“because it’s spring”, whatever the fuck that meant) and wound over his clothes, held together the fragmented pieces of _Jensen_ , pieces that Misha had stripped apart along with his armor, his self-control, laying bare everything that lurked beneath the independent, confident mask he presented to the world – and to himself, truth be told, every time he looked in the mirror.

The touch on his shoulder, over the T-shirt stretched tight by the rope on his bicep, sent a shock of heat through his body that he hadn’t felt since he was sixteen, the first time he’d thrust, terrified and elated, into a girl two years his senior, in the back seat of the car he’d borrowed from his dad.

“Breathe,” Misha told him again, and a hard, thin edge of metal pressed to the back of his neck.

Jensen closed his eyes but couldn’t hide the sound that escaped his throat. The _snick_ of metal was like thunder in his ears; the fabric parting under the shears was the rain that followed. Warm air slid over the top of his spine, over the vee of skin bared by the T-shirt falling away, down to the uppermost winding of rope.

 _Don’t,_ he thought, but he didn’t dare speak, because once he started, he might not stop, and not even Misha’s ropes could hold everything inside him then. Don’t keep cutting. Don’t strip away the last of his flimsy masks, the T-shirt and old jeans, that hid him from Misha’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Don’t stop.”

It wasn’t until he heard the words, rasped and broken, that he realized they’d come from his own lips.

Misha could have offered comfort – a touch, a word, even, God help Jensen, another devastating kiss. Instead, he offered nothing more than the shears, turning horizontal to slice cleanly across his back, following the line of the rope, sliding easily over the edge of his shoulder blade, the metal painless and blunt, hard and unyielding, stopping only where Jensen’s arm was trapped against his body.

The shears moved up to where neck met shoulder, finding _that spot_ that begged for a kiss or lick or bite. The metal moved and fabric whispered, fragments of Jensen’s T-shirt falling open down the front and back as the shears crested the curve of his shoulder, down his arm, to the ropes.

God. Misha was going to strip him one _inch_ at a time.

With a tug, Misha freed the sleeve from the top few loops of rope. Another tug brought the trapped fabric forward, severing it with a sharp hiss of shears. Strong fingers worked at Jensen’s back; he was so sensitive that he was beyond even ticklish, and the feel of fabric pulled between his arm and ribs felt more like a caress.

“So perfect, Jensen,” Misha said, breath a soft breeze across his left ear, as his hand curved over the now-bared shoulder, just visible if Jensen bowed his head.

He did, of course; watched as the scrap of fabric, untethered, slid down his chest, over the ropes, to land across one thigh. “Mish.” A wordless, formless plea.

“Would you let me do something, Jensen?” Misha asked, as the shears touched Jensen’s spine, traveling to the right this time, mirroring the second cut he’d made just seconds – or hours – before.

Jensen had to bite his lip to keep from surrendering completely. No one ever, _ever_ answered a question like that with the word ‘anything’ – not when Misha was the one asking.

But he couldn’t say ‘no’. Couldn’t even fucking _ask_ , not with the shears hard against his skin, the air so cool he shivered, as if the thin T-shirt had trapped the heat of the bonfire Misha had lit under his skin.

“I need to see you, Jensen,” Misha whispered. “I want to see every inch of you. All that beautiful skin, flushed against the rope... Can I turn up the lights, Jensen?”

The darkness was safe. The softly dimmed lights were protection, another mask that Jensen hadn’t even realized was there.

He closed his eyes, struggling to breathe, and nodded. From somewhere inside, he found the reserves to be able to say, “Yeah.”

His reward was a touch, the brush of fingers over his right shoulder, pushing at the ravaged scraps of the T-shirt, before Misha was gone. Jensen forced in another breath and looked up, watching Misha cross the room, so composed and in control, never faltering.

 _Safe._

The lights came back up slowly enough that his eyes didn’t sting. He wanted to close them anyway, to bow his head and turn away, but he couldn’t break free of Misha’s gaze. It was Dean and Castiel all over again – eye-fucking, the fangirls called it, and God damn them all, they were right. Misha’s gaze was hungry and raw, demanding everything Jensen had, everything he could possibly give, with no hope of quarter or compromise or treaty.

He couldn’t look away as Misha walked toward him, shears hanging negligently from his right hand, fingers hooked just enough to keep hold of them. Jensen felt those sharp blue eyes all over him, as though they could see through his clothes down to his skin and deeper, into those places where he hid things even from himself.

Misha folded down to his knees in front of Jensen, left hand rising to brush his fingertips along his jaw. He hadn’t shaved – he didn’t bother, except during the summer, when filming was done for the season – and he imagined he could hear the rasp of skin over his stubble.

“So perfect,” Misha breathed, hand moving like a bird’s wing, light and sure, up and across Jensen’s lips. “Stay with me, Jensen. Don’t hide from me. Please.”

Jensen pressed into the touch, eyes closing. He didn’t know how much more _with_ Misha he could be, but he nodded anyway. “What are you doing?”

Misha leaned in and kissed him, a fleeting brush of soft lips against chapped. “Setting you free,” he said, as the shears pressed against the left side of Jensen’s chest and resumed cutting.

He breathed into the metal and ropes, fingers flexing helplessly behind his back. Misha’s body called to him, warm and strong and protective, and he had to fight not to fall forward. When his hands clenched into fists, the ropes around his wrists strained; the sensation, coils of just-slightly-rough hemp over the sensitive skin under his right wrist, seemed for one moment to take over his whole body.

“Misha,” he pleaded, so quietly that even he could barely hear it over the sound of fabric falling away.

“Shh. Breathe, Jensen. _Feel._ ”

The last bits of his shirt tugged free from between his right arm and ribs, added to the growing pile of soft scraps on his lap. He couldn’t feel them because of his jeans and it was, for a moment, maddening. He needed to feel _everything_.

Misha pinched up the fabric between the coils and snipped through just enough so he could slide the shears between shirt and skin. The breath caught in Jensen’s lungs and he struggled to get past it, fighting to remember if he was inhaling or exhaling as the shears moved along his body, Misha guiding them through slow, even cuts below the coils of rope around his upper chest. When Misha moved behind him, using another pinch to start a new cut in the trapped space above his arms, he almost whimpered at the loss. He twisted awkwardly, trying to watch.

Smiling that tiny, secret smile, Misha reached up with his left hand to turn Jensen’s head forward again, saying, “Just feel, Jensen. Give yourself over to me.”

Jensen couldn’t fight. He closed his eyes, head falling forward, and shivered as Misha worked along his back, cutting the shirt away in strips, tugging at the pieces caught under his arms again, leaving only the scraps that were completely concealed by the ropes. The fraying, raw edges tickled at Jensen’s skin, as if he could feel every unraveled thread in that same hypersensitive way he felt Misha’s breath and heat and even his voracious, possessive eyes as they watched Jensen’s every reaction.

It should have been a nightmare loss of self control, an abhorrent surrender that Jensen had never even _considered_. He was a person, not some _thing_ , some possession, to be played with at someone else’s whim.

But that wasn’t what this was about. Instead, he felt... _cherished_ , as if by submitting to this, he was giving Misha some kind of precious gift that would be cared for and honored and... God, he was insane for thinking it, but... even _loved_. Because this wasn’t some plan to get him naked and fuck him silly. This was beyond even Misha’s convoluted and elaborate need to create the perfect prank. This was _more_.

When had they stopped being friends and co-workers? With the first touch of Misha’s rope over his chest? When Jensen had let Misha walk him under the ropes still hanging gracefully from the ceiling? Or when Jensen had given in to Misha’s eccentricity and brought over the box that Misha had ordered delivered to Jensen’s house?

As the last scrap over his ribs fell free, he inhaled, feeling the touch of Misha’s fingers over his spine for just a moment.

“So perfect,” Misha whispered, and resumed cutting, this time slicing clean and quick through the untucked T-shirt hanging from the coils around Jensen’s waist. “Can you kneel up for me, Jensen? I’ll help you balance.”

Jensen nodded, but it took two tries for him to get the strength into his legs, and he needed Misha’s hand on his arm to help him balance. When he felt Misha start to move behind him, he looked back, trying to catch him with his eyes. “Mish... Please. What – what is this, to you?” he asked incoherently, knowing _what_ he wanted to ask, but not _how_.

Misha tilted his head, and there was nothing of Castiel in it at all now. It was pure Misha, analytical and pleased and gentle, his eyes knowing and very bright around the darkness of his pupils in the harsh, bright bedroom light. “I’ll let you tell me, after,” he said, as if the words were a promise, and moved out of Jensen’s sight.

Jensen could only give in to that, too; he couldn’t even think about demanding a straight answer – not with Misha’s hand moving from his arm to grasp the line of rope that ran over his spine, holding him upright with gentle pressure on the ropes around his chest. One blunt edge of metal slid under the waistband of his jeans, and Jensen startled; he’d expected Misha to unbutton, unzip – to do things the _normal_ way.

Of course, that wasn’t Misha.

“These shears are used by EMTs to cut through clothing in an emergency,” Misha said quietly, and effortlessly sliced right through the thick denim. As he worked down Jensen’s right hip with quick, sure cuts, he said, “They can also free you from this rope in seconds. I wouldn’t endanger you, if something happened – or if you told me to stop.”

“God,” Jensen whispered, letting out a breath that might have been shock or laughter or relief.

“Not quite,” Misha said, his voice light and teasing, before he pressed close to Jensen’s right shoulder, lips brushing against the hair by his right ear. His voice dropped, Castiel-low and rough, and he said, “Maybe an angel, though. You can tell me that afterward, too.”

This time, Jensen did laugh, a release of tension that left him peculiarly clear-headed, only half paying attention as Misha moved the shears over to his left hip. God, the man was... incredible.

As the jeans fell free, dropping to be trapped by the ropes around Jensen’s thighs, he looked down, suddenly realizing he couldn’t really feel the air –

 _Fuck._ Misha had cut _over_ his boxers.

His heart skipped, pulse racing, as he realized Misha wasn’t going to race to get this finished any time soon. Jensen didn’t know if he’d expected Misha to free his legs completely or to just get his jeans out of the way, but he hadn’t expected this careful, methodical precision to continue, leaving him desperate for Misha to get on with it already, and unable to do a damned thing about it.

The feel of the shears circling his right leg, then his left, was like a shot of fire straight into his veins. He was trembling again, and not with the strain of kneeling, legs spread, though he knew in some distant way that his knees were starting to hurt from the press of his weight against cheap carpet and thin padding. The feel of Misha’s hand, gently brushing between his legs, never even coming close to where he _needed_ it, threatened to break him all over again.

It wasn’t that this wasn’t about that protected, cherished feeling anymore – it was. But a heavy coil of sex and desire wove through it now, the need to not just be touched but _claimed_ – and that realization made Jensen gasp as it hit him. He closed his eyes and searched inside his mind, to figure out where the fuck that thought had come from, irrationally wanting to blame Misha, but... it was there, somewhere hiding deep inside, the need to be wanted so badly that it crossed from desire to _possession_. Misha had somehow seen it, recognized it, and then simply opened the basement door and flipped on the light, calling it out to play.

All the while, Misha plucked at the fabric and cut circles around Jensen’s thighs, stripping away the denim, dropping each piece on the growing pile that littered the carpet in front of Jensen’s knees. His hands never hesitated, never stopped moving, until he came to kneel in front of Jensen again, searching his face until their gazes locked.

“I’m going to help you stand now,” he said quietly. “You might be dizzy, but I promise, you won’t fall. I’ll help you to the bed so you can sit on the edge. Okay?”

“Mish...” He cut off the plea and nodded, taking a ragged breath. “Okay. Yeah.”

Misha moved first, and Jensen mirrored him, getting one foot flat on the ground, followed by the other, leaning against the strong hands locked around his arms. As soon as he was up on his feet, all the blood rushed out of his skull and he fell against Misha, who braced and didn’t move except to hold Jensen close. “It’s okay,” he murmured in Jensen’s ear. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Jensen leaned his head against Misha’s shoulder, trying to breathe steadily, feeling the world shift under his feet. His pulse was racing as if he’d run a damned marathon and every inch of bare skin shivered with sweat. Misha’s touch on his flesh was like getting struck by lightning.

Finally he was able to shift his weight, and allowed Misha to walk him toward the bed in tiny, careful steps. When he sat, he exhaled sharply, trembling, and closed his eyes to press against Misha’s hand as it cupped the side of his face.

“Good,” Misha said, and the praise warmed him, bringing an embarrassing flush to his face. Misha had to know, with the lights as bright as they were, but he didn’t say anything; he just knelt down and went back to cutting the socks over Jensen’s right ankle, then left, before cutting each one in a line down the top of each foot, though he could have pulled them off just as easily.

Finally, Jensen opened his eyes, to see Misha still kneeling in front of him, looking up at him, intense and focused, with a feral, barely-controlled edge seen only in the tightness around his eyes, the way each breath whispered through parted lips.

“You can tell me to stop, Jensen,” Misha offered, maddeningly _not_ touching Jensen, hands resting on his thighs, shears still hanging from his right forefinger and thumb. “We’ll still be friends – I swear it.”

“And – if I don’t?” Jensen forced the words out.

“We’ll still be friends,” Misha promised, his eyes going dark with lust. He knelt up, getting that much closer to Jensen, but not close enough, damn him. “But we’ll have _this_ , too. And we can’t take it back, once it’s done.”

 _This._

No words, no context, except for Jensen’s imagination – which was _painfully_ inadequate compared to Misha’s.

He meant to say ‘yes’ or ‘do it’ or something equally confident, maybe even cocky.

What came out, though, was, “I’m yours.”

Misha rose slowly, never releasing Jensen from his gaze, even when he got up on the bed next to him. “Move back with me,” he urged quietly, hands on Jensen’s body to guide him. It wasn’t easy, moving without his hands and arms, but he managed, kicking at the soft bedspread until he was in the dead center of the huge mattress, with Misha getting pillows under his head and shoulders.

“Keep your back arched up just a little. Let your hands find a natural place to rest,” Misha said. “It’s there – just relax and let it happen.”

And it did, though every instinct Jensen had said it _should_ have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. There was no strain on his wrists, just a slight burn along his back. He couldn’t sleep like this, but he could lay there... helpless and exposed, hidden only by the ropes and his cotton boxers.

“Mish,” he whispered, closing his eyes, suddenly terrified.

“Easy,” Misha soothed, laying one hand flat on Jensen’s chest, between the two broad wraps of rope. “I’ll take care of you, Jensen. I promise.”

Slowly, under Misha’s unmoving touch, Jensen felt his heart rate ease. His breath slowed and the sense of panic ebbed. He shivered, but with the aftershocks of irrational fear, not the cold. When he finally opened his eyes, it was to see Misha watching him with no hint of condemnation or mockery in his eyes – just a steady, comforting patience, as if he would be content to sit beside Jensen like this all night.

Jensen swallowed, throat dry, and said, “It’s okay.”

Misha smiled, nothing more than a curve at one corner of his lips, but his eyes seemed to glow with happiness. “You’re sure?”

Jensen nodded. He couldn’t even try to guess what would come next, but he trusted Misha.

Pausing only for another brief kiss brushed over his lips, Misha turned away, and Jensen hissed in a breath when he felt the shears press into his hips, tugging at the waistband of his boxers, first on the left side, where he sat, and then on the right side, Misha’s heat blanketing Jensen’s body as he leaned over.

“Lift up for me,” Misha said, and Jensen did, just enough to let the cut-away fabric slide out from beneath his hips. “Just a little more patience,” Misha told him, and shifted off the bed, dropping the shears on the nightstand, the ruined boxers on the floor.

Jensen watched as best he could as Misha walked to the neat bundles of rope that Jensen had – until that moment – forgotten. It seemed a critical mistake, especially when Misha picked up one of the coils and crawled up onto the bed, between Jensen’s legs.

He couldn’t hide his gasp when Misha’s fingers worked under the lowest twist of rope around his left thigh, just barely cushioned by the ring of denim trapped there. He fed one end of the rope through and tugged it free of the coil, until he held a long tail. Carefully, working as slowly as if he had all the time in the world, he wove it under the matching rope on Jensen’s right thigh, and then back to the left, working up through successive twists, until he reached the top.

Giving in to the strain burning in his neck, Jensen let his head fall back, twitching at every touch as Misha worked his pattern back down. Jensen had no idea what the hell he was doing – what _either_ of them was doing, in fact – so he just gave in, surrendering again, as he’d been doing all night, as if surrender was a temporary state, consuming him and ebbing away before rising up to strip away his will once more.

When Misha slid to his left side and began tightening the weave, pulling his legs together, Jensen didn’t move – until he felt one hand slide under his balls, and the pool of lust in his gut burned with sudden, brilliant ferocity. He groaned and tried to move, but Misha’s hand moved with him, giving him nothing – no purchase, not even a touch on his cock.

And when Misha let go, Jensen whimpered and closed his eyes, _dying_ a little inside from the need that was tearing through his veins, throbbing in his cock, shredding rational thought into little whispers of desperation and hunger.

As calm and steady as he’d been all fucking night, Misha finished locking Jensen’s thighs together and crawled back to reach toward the foot of the bed, for more rope.

“God, Mish – please,” Jensen begged, closing his eyes, wrists twisting helplessly under his own weight.

“Patience,” was Misha’s answer as he started wrapping the rope around Jensen’s left calf, just under his knee.

As if he had a fucking choice.

So he lay there while Misha finished with his left leg and started on the right, weaving every other pass into the coils around his left leg, tightening them until there was no way Jensen could have parted his legs at all. But even that wasn’t enough; not for Misha. He got _more_ rope, not even rushing _a little_ as he wove it patiently through the bindings at Jensen’s ankles, up through the coils and back again, locking Jensen’s ankles together, holding him completely immobile.

When he was finished, he cleared the bed with one shockingly abrupt gesture, shoving the rest of the ropes onto the floor, making Jensen’s heart skip. It was one single motion, but after a night of such perfect, precise control, it was like glimpsing the fire inside the heart of a volcano.

“Will you do something for me?” Misha asked roughly, walking with slow, careful steps – as if now, he didn’t trust himself – to sit on the bed near Jensen’s left side, close enough to brush his fingers over Jensen’s cheek.

This time, Jensen forgot himself. “Anything,” he promised.

Misha smiled and opened the nightstand. Jensen heard things rattle around and felt a sudden jolt of apprehension at the thought of what Misha might keep in there, close at hand for when he was in bed.

His imagination ran wild for just a moment, until Misha threw him another random curve, as though driving them both down a path only he could see. What he showed Jensen looked like some sort of miniature pillow, maybe three inches by eight inches, covered with a soft-looking green fabric. “Close your eyes, Jensen.”

It went against all rational thought, but try as he might, Jensen couldn’t see how the innocent pillow could be a problem. He obeyed, and felt a weight press over his eyes. Gentle touches smoothed it against his cheekbones, filling the space at the top of his nose, plunging him into complete darkness. It should have been terrifying, but it was... soothing, scenting the air with some subtle fragrance he couldn’t define, the fabric cool against his skin. The pillow was filled with tiny weights, like little beads, that blocked out every hint of light without pressing down enough to make him uncomfortable in the least.

“Jensen.”

The whisper, so close to his left ear, sent a shiver through his whole body.

 _“Don’t move.”_ Misha’s lips brushed the curve of his ear, making him twitch in surprise. “If this slips off your eyes, I’ll untie you, find you clothes that fit, and send you home. Do you understand?”

“Fuck. Misha, what –”

“No talking, Jensen. Just answer. Do you understand?”

Cursing at how neatly he’d let himself be trapped, he almost nodded but caught himself, suddenly terrified that the cool fabric was slick enough that it would fall at the least motion. “Yeah,” he rasped, throat tight.

Misha said nothing; his weight disappeared from the bed, and he was too damned quiet for Jensen to hear him move at all.

So he lay there, dizzy with fear and lust and apprehension and wondering what the fuck he was doing – what the fuck he was _letting Misha do_ – and why wasn’t Misha _touching_ him? Where the hell had he gone?

After a little while, he cursed the last few years he’d spent playing Dean, because this was exactly the type of shit Dean _wouldn’t_ allow to happen. Or he would do something _smart_ like, oh, counting the seconds to know how long Misha had been gone.

And obviously Jensen was going crazy, because now he was thinking of Dean as a _person_ and not a character whose skin he wore for eight or ten or sixteen hours occasionally for most of the months out of the year, and probably the whole God damned reason he was in this mess in the first –

Wet heat engulfed his cock in one perfect, delicious motion, as fingers circled the base.

Every thought stopped.

The groan that ripped from his chest was pure, desperate need, without a hint of pride or even sanity. _“Please,”_ he begged, trying to get the leverage to do more than twitch his hips.

The sensation ebbed as the heat withdrew, replaced by the all-too-familiar feel of a condom being unrolled down his length, and he could only think _Fuck, yes!_ even as he whimpered.

Then he felt the bed buckle under a heavy weight, hot, bare skin pressing against his hips. Hands curved tight over his shoulders and Misha’s voice whispered in his ear, low and sinful: “I had to steal one taste. You don’t mind, do you, Jensen?”

How the hell was he supposed to answer _that_?

Obviously, though, it was a rhetorical question, because he felt pressure on his cock, wrapped around the length, and then at the head, and then pressing _down_ and he heard Misha let out a low, broken sound as his weight shifted, and Jensen realized –

“Misha,” he pleaded,fingers digging into the bedspread as Misha’s weight sank down onto him. “God, Misha – need to see you – please –”

He didn’t expect Misha to comply – not with his wicked sense of mischief – but he pulled the silky pillow free of Jensen’s eyes and threw it aside, just as he stopped, Jensen’s full length buried in him. His right hand clenched Jensen’s shoulder tight enough to bruise; his chest heaved with slow, deep breaths, a sheen of sweat visible on pale skin that didn’t get enough sunlight in the freezing Vancouver winter. He lifted his head, meeting Jensen’s eyes, pupils blown so black and needy that Jensen groaned at the sight.

It took a few breaths for him to say, in that sex-rough voice he used for Cas, “Still with me, Jensen?”

Jensen couldn’t stop the slightly hysterical laugh. “Where the fuck else would I be, Mish?” he demanded, though it came out more desperate than strong.

Another couple of breaths, both of them falling into a rhythm, and Jensen swore he could feel the pulse deep inside Misha’s body. “Fair enough,” Misha eventually answered, eyes closing. He shifted his hips, rolling them slightly, and let out a harsh groan that matched Jensen’s. “You feel... _So. Damned. Good._ ”

There really was no way for Jensen to answer that, except to wait...

And wait, the burning need in him ramping up toward unbearable.

“Mish...”

“Jensen.” Misha’s eyes opened, lust-dark and hungry, but he _didn’t move._ “Just feel, Jensen. Breathe with me.”

“Fuck,” Jensen snapped, his voice cracking. “Misha –”

“Breathe,” he said implacably.

Shaking, composure on the edge of shattering completely, Jensen couldn’t even fucking remember _how_ to breathe, but he sort of managed, dragging in a rough breath, exhaling sharply, not even close to Misha’s steady rhythm.

The bastard laughed, then, and Jensen _felt it_ , the faintest tremor resonating through Misha’s body, straight into Jensen’s cock, and for the first time since he was sixteen, Jensen cursed that he was wearing a fucking condom.

“You’ve been breathing most of your life, I’d imagine, Jensen. You can do better than that,” Misha said, his voice rock-fucking-steady. “Inhale with me – do it, Jensen.”

With one faint, frustrated whimper, Jensen let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and complied, breathing in against the ropes imprisoning him, then exhaled as Misha instructed, slowly surrendering even this simple, primal act to Misha’s will.

“Good, Jensen,” Misha whispered, when Jensen’s breathing was finally under some sort of control. “Inhale like that... Can you still feel me? Exhale... Surrounding you. God, you feel so fucking _good_ , Jensen. Exhale again... And inhale...”

Misha’s voice, low and rough, stirred up a confusing, conflicting, dizzying mix of peaceful tranquility and raw lust deep inside Jensen. He didn’t _move_ , but the pressure of his body around Jensen’s cock shifted and changed with very breath, holding him so fucking tight that it was a miracle either of them could breathe at all.

Every inch of his body seemed to be alive, senses razor-sharp, skin so sensitive that he could almost count the threads in the bedspread under him. Misha’s skin burned against his; Misha’s voice was like a physical touch, sliding over Jensen’s flesh, controlling him just as surely as the ropes that held him immobile, until he couldn’t think of anything but the feel of Misha surrounding him.

“Jensen –”

He opened his eyes and saw Misha’s eyes were closed, head thrown back, chest heaving with the struggle to keep breathing steadily. As Jensen watched, Misha bit his lower lip, his whole body shuddering, sending jolts of pleasure right into Jensen’s cock. He looked down –

 _Fuck._ Misha’s left hand was wrapped around his own cock, stroking slow and long and hard, the muscles in his arm trembling. Jensen strained against his body’s position, needing to watch, wondering how the fuck Misha was managing to keep the rest of his body so absolutely still.

It was Misha’s turn to completely lose the rhythm of their breathing as he continued, jaw clenched, nostrils flared with every harsh breath. “Fuck, Jensen,” he whispered, voice completely _wrecked_.

“Do it,” Jensen urged, falling back into the pillows, watching Misha’s face, flushed and tense.

Misha’s eyes opened, dark and intense and absolutely _demanding_. “Come with me,” he said, and it wasn’t a request, but a fucking command.

Jensen couldn’t fight it – didn’t want to – but he couldn’t see _how_ he could obey, when Misha _wouldn’t fucking move_ –

With a sudden, sharp cry, Misha’s whole body clenched tight, shaking violently, hips rocking hard enough to white out Jensen’s vision. Jensen bit his lip to try and keep silent, needing desperately to hear Misha come apart as hot warmth covered his stomach and chest, except for where the ropes bound him, trapped him. He tried to move, tried to thrust up into Misha, but the ropes held him in place, muscles locked tight and straining as Misha clamped hard around him, crying out Jensen’s name –

And then he was _there_ with Misha, his whole body breaking over some unimaginable barrier, tearing a shout from his throat as the pleasure engulfed him. Misha cried out in counterpoint and collapsed forward, hand slipping to brace on the bed over Jensen’s shoulder, and the shift in the angle of their joined bodies pushed Jensen even higher, blood pounding in his ears, breath catching in his throat, body fighting violently against the ropes with no hope of getting free.

He was only half aware when Misha slowly moved off his body. When Misha eased the condom off. When Misha left the bed, returning with a warm washcloth and soft towel to clean him up.

“Can you roll over, Jensen?” Misha asked as he slowly dragged, the towel away, every motion full of a sense of lazy, deep satisfaction.

“Yeah. Right,” Jensen laughed weakly, barely managing to get his eyes open to look over at Misha. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Misha sprawled beside him, idly running his hand over the ropes that still circled his chest, and kissed him without restraint, slow and wet and demanding and absolutely sinful enough to leave Jensen breathless all over again. “You tell me,” he said, a smug little sparkle flashing in his eyes.

“God, you’re insane,” Jensen laughed.

“So I’ve heard. I want to get you in the shower. Then back in bed. All fucking weekend.”

“Fuck.”

“That, too. So, did you figure it out?”

“What?”

“God or angel?”

Jensen laughed. “Misha.”

Misha’s laugh sounded damn good, weaving along with Jensen’s. “Fair enough. Come on, roll over,” he urged, squirming right up next to Jensen and giving him a push, getting his leg and hands under his right side.

It was damn near impossible for Jensen to do anything but lay there until he flopped over. Misha crawled up and adjusted the pillow so Jensen wouldn’t suffocate. Shivering at Misha’s touch, working at the ropes, Jensen asked, “Why not cut them off?”

Misha laughed and closed his teeth over Jensen’s ear, just sharp enough to sting. “I’m saving them for tomorrow. I’m _so_ not done with you, Jensen. Not letting you get away.”

 _Fuck,_ Jensen thought.

And, then he added, silently, _yes._


End file.
